


Count on Me

by GraceEliz



Series: Buir Fox [3]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Biting/Marking, Breeding Kink, Buir Fox, F/M, Mand'alor Fox, Possessiveness, Riyo is buir now, Sexual Content, Smut, Uncanny Valley clones get more uncanny with every installment of this series, because one of them misses it, however in chapter three eli and teek rally for a repeat of the Chancellor incident, in chapter two, oh dear heaven absolve me, wee bit of a, without me ever actually using the usual buzzwords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: She snarls, baring all her teeth in aggression fury fear, crouched ready to leap over the still, horribly still, body of the Clone she is protecting. How dare she – how dare this woman even look at her son! The nerve of her, the sheer audacity to touch him, to hurt –“Leave, or I will kill you,” she promises.
Relationships: Riyo Chuchi/CC-1010 | Fox
Series: Buir Fox [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857178
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> Meryy chrisssmast

She snarls, baring all her teeth in aggression fury fear, crouched ready to leap over the still, horribly still, body of the Clone she is protecting. How dare she – how dare this woman even look at her son! The nerve of her, the sheer audacity to touch him, to hurt –

“Leave, or I will kill you,” she promises, voice low and growling in a manner she associates primarily with Fox and Wolffe and sometimes Cody. The woman, all fake tan and crimped magenta hair, sneers.

“Make me.”

Riyo grins. “With pleasure,” she sneers. As she leaps, like a striking serpent, she twists, getting the woman down the floor within seconds, arm twisted, knee to the spine. It’s the exact move the Guard pull to make an arrest, and oh, isn’t that an idea. Magenta hair muddies rapidly in the filth of Coruscant’s lower levels. “You’re under arrest for attempted bodily harm. Keep your silence. Anything you say can and will be held against you,” says Riyo, standing fluidly to allow the woman into the hands of a red-painted Clone. Hound, she realises, noting the new symbol of massif-teeth ringing his pauldrons. Good. She won’t be getting loose.

“Buir? You kill ‘er?”

She rushes back to her boy lying deflated on his back, like a puppet with all his strings cut, a comparison which has her snarling. “No, darling, I didn’t.”

Teek manages a grin, still shaking. At least he’s awake, she consoles herself, sitting him up. He leans into her. “Buir will, then.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Fox will be furious when he hears about this, about assault in his city. This woman dared touch someone who’d repeatedly backed away and asked her to leave? The justice Riyo grew up on would see her shamed, cast out, even drowned if she continued: the justice of Mandalore demands she die. Balancing the demands of their people to the demands of their hearts for revenge will be hard. “I would have torn her heart out if she hurt you any further.”

Brown eyes, like the brown of the polished nuts her people give as gifts in to celebrate the opening of the Marsh Lilies, meet hers. “Thank you,” Teek says, wrapping his fingers around her wrist in gratitude. He doesn’t do holding hands, still. 

“I love you,” she answers simply, pressing her fingers against his briefly, and it is reason enough. Carefully, the young man stands up, still shivering with his flashbacks. “You’re safe now, ner’ad.”

“I know,” he smiles down at her. “I know.” Tenderly, he brushes a hand over her hair. “It hasn’t even moved,” Teek whispers in awe, and the delicacy of his touch after the violence she was prepared – even eager – to unleash makes her suddenly want to cry, or go scratch out that bitch’s eyeballs. Sucking in her breath, Riyo braces herself to take this matter to the Mand’alor. “He’s going to be so pissed,” breathes Teek in something approaching fervent adoration. It startles a laugh out of her, because, well, he’s not wrong. Fox really is going to be pissed. 

Fox is reclining in his not-a-throne - not really a throne, but when he sprawls across it so, what else can she call it but a throne? He oozes a lazy sort of alpha-dominance, Wolffe silent support at his shoulder. Their eyes sharpen when she enters, irises glowing ethereally in the low light of what used to be the Senator’s offices, and is now a much more open-plan spread. Nobody says a word as she marches up to him, Teek close behind, and she knows her fury is clear in her face. Why should she make a politician’s attempt at Jedi serenity? Her son was hurt. 

“Riduur, ad,” he croons in greeting. Wolffe snaps a command in Mando’a, and the room empties of all but they four. Alone, finally, their ad allows himself to shiver, reeling forwards towards a frowning Fox. “Teek? Ner’ad’ika, what has happened?”

The young man buries his face in his buir’s shoulder, shaking his head. “I’m not hurt.” Wolffe’s eyes glint violently golden. 

“You okay, kid?” 

“Elek, ba’vodu.”

Riyo narrows her eyes, not entirely sure whether she should press the matter or allow the boy his peace with his buir. Picking up on her uncertainty, their vod draws her gently away, allowing the soft whispers of Fox to fade behind them. One of the adjoining rooms is a smallish sparring area, matted and provided with a few basic provisions. 

“Spar, Riyo? Get some of that ferocity out,” Wolffe offers, holding out one of the slender wooden staffs he knows she favours. “If you’re lucky Fox will come in and carry you off for a good fu-”

“That’s enough of you,” Riyo barks, lashing out with the staff to distract from the blush purpling her skin.


	2. Two.

His growls ripple down her spine, radiating in shivers through her skin. Riyo gasps, pressing down into the bed in submission, thrilling in the knowledge of how adored she is. Nobody else can make him so feral, so primal and base. No other woman has the ability to stumble the mighty warrior with just a look sent under her eyelashes. 

“You’re mine, Riyo,” Fox says into her shoulder. The heat of his breath curling through the cold of his room in the barracks makes her sigh; the rasp of his teeth – those sharp, dangerous teeth, the teeth that tore out the Bastard’s throat – makes her whimper into the sheets. He’s right, so right. They belong to each other. “My beauty, my warrior wife.”

She fumbles her right hand back, near-blind on love, brushing down his arm to his hand, so close to her hip that her nails brush the bone when she intertwines their fingers. “I love you,” she swears headily, relishing the clamp of his left arm around her upper body, hauling her upright into his lap. Cradled, surrounded by him – protected and sheltered and worshipped – she allows herself to release, to go completely limp and know nothing of politics or fear or empire. Her riduur surrounds her in love. “Stroke me?”

Fox smiles; she feels the soft love of his lips on her temple when he responds. “Of course, ner’kar’ta.” This is what she loves the most of any of their lovemaking: to be held to him, with those large hands slowly moving down her limbs, dragging all her tension with them. She loves feeling safe, feeling adored, knowing that she is untouchable by anyone except her chosen mate. She adores that he can mark her just as she instinctively marks him, her hard teeth leaving deep marks she sucks bruises around. It feels like reclamation. Of what, Riyo can’t say; certainly not now, lost as she is to lust.

He allows her to float in her _aurora,_ as her people call it, the flight of the soul from the body as a result of pleasurable emotion, for what may well be hours, leant against the wall in their den with her encircled. Under her ear, his heart pounds, strong and eternal. Against his dark skin, she seems to glow, pale blue like the dancing veil of the _aurora_ above her village on Pantora. Sometimes she misses her home, the wet wind-blown smell of it, the green-and-grey marshes with the blue line of the sea beyond. “You would like my home,” she tells him, almost brainless with the freedom of being able to float inside herself in her husband’s arms. “It rains a lot, and is windy, but when the tide is out and it’s summer, the marshes are full of birdsong and the smell of growing things and salt. I miss it.”

His muscles swell when he moves, every part of him hard and powerful. “I’d like that,” he hums, tracing his finger down her hip to watch her shiver. Under her head, his shoulder feels more like bone; such sheer strength makes her quiver. Impulsively, she turns her face into the crook of his neck, nipping at the tendons. There can be no bruises here, no marks to claim him, and it nags at her, the scarred skin attracting her as effectively as anything he’s ever done. “Ree,” he warns, pushing his thumb into the crease of her hip, “I have told you about marking my neck.”

Pathetically, she whines when he moves her away, helplessly boneless but still craving his skin under her tongue. “Please, alor?”

He raises his eyebrows, eyes practically glowing. If she just breaks him a little further, just a bit more, he will give in, collapse the walls holding back the beautiful untameable creature he truly is. “Alor?”

Please be the card she should play. “Ner’alor,” croons Riyo, drawing his hand to her lips. She kisses the bruised knuckles, tracks the scars of his wrist with her nose. Scenting, sinking ever deeper, Riyo turns her face to his. “Kiss me, ner’alor?” His fingers scrape against her scalp, his palm cradling her cheek. “Ner Mand’alor?”

He does. He claims her, pushing her back into the bed, and his hands are everywhere and he is holding her, pinning her with his body and he is so hot against her skin and he is beautiful, beautiful, a folk-tale in brown flesh and glowing eyes. Short chestnut-red hair plasters to the sweat of his brow, almost reaching his eyes. Riyo reaches up a hand, the blue darkened by the rushing of her blood, carding her fingers through it. Proud, she traces around those eyes, the amber of them glowing from within with the light of the stars, almost surpassed by his blown pupils. Her riduur, her alor, the One Who Walks Guided By Stars. A’den be’kara, the wrath of the stars, made into a man, her man. She carves her claim into his back, spiralling up into another _aurora_ as he snarls viciously, teeth brushing over her collarbones.

“You’re mine,” she gasps, arching into his touch. “Mine, Fox.”

“Yours,” agrees the man roughly; she is flying, shattering, clutching tight to his dark skin. As if through the marshes of her home, she hears him add, “you’re mine.”

Afterwards, with the cold nipping at her bare skin, and her riduur radiating that almost unnatural heat which is the result of their.... nightly habits, Riyo takes a firm look at her mind and actions. She’s claimed him. If she knows her biology at all, which she does, any day now she’ll have the ‘drop’, as her mother called it. An urge to breed, turning her into an even worse mess than she usually winds up when she’s anywhere near him. The concept of being beholden to _instinct_ – her, Riyo Chuchi, youngest Senator Pantora has had in centuries, the wife of the Mand’alor, possibly the most influential woman on the planet – wrinkles her lip in a sneer. 

“How are you still thinking?” grumbles Fox, rolling to lie half on his side, tugging her in closer under the knit blanket.

“You remember I told you about the drop?”

He goes very quiet beside her, stroking her hair upwards so he can watch it fall around her face. “Will it be so very bad?” he asks.

“How do you mean?”

Fox hesitates again. Her heart melts that he feels secure enough with her to allow himself to hesitate, to ask. Commanders don’t ask questions; the Mand’alor even less so. “Will you hurt?”

“Not with you here,” she assures him with a smile that almost aches with tenderness.

He nods slowly, eyes glowing just enough for her to see the movement of them in the darkness. By all rights, such a predatorial display should have her weak in terror, but it is not terror that would make her tremble if she were only less exhausted. “And the drop...”

“It ensures our survival, the old stories say. They say that it was cast on us by the Fair Folk a long time ago time ago. It makes new-mates want to – to breed.”

For a few minutes, they lie in silence, cocooned in their den where nobody can reach them unless something is on fire or war has been declared. Fox tugs her gently to lie on his broad chest; she pillows her chin on her crossed forearms, close to swooning at the feel of her body moving when he takes a deep breath. He gazes at her, moving the blankets around with painstaking care.   
“Would it be so very bad?” 

“What?” 

“To have a child,” he murmurs, his hand drifting down to brush her lower stomach. “A daughter?”

_Oh.  
_

“No, not so – not so very bad,” admits Riyo, flushing once more at the thought. An unbreakable claim. A child. 

A little girl. 

“Not so very bad at all,” she husks, leaning in to find his lips. Such a heady concept, of a little girl with his eyes and his hair and her skin, a child of their own by blood as much as by oath – a child grown in her, who nobody can take from her. Or perhaps, a blue-skinned amber-eyed girl with the look of her father, a near-match to her brothers. A child to call her mama, and call him buir, to cradle to her breast and watch as she sleeps on her father’s chest – how much more vivid her imaginings are, of a sudden, now that a baby is something they can have. “Your baby, and mine. A little girl of our own.”


	3. Three

The Moff of some distant outer rim region leers down his nose at their Ree-buir, managing to come over as disdainful and salacious in the same breath. “Deflowered by a Clone,” drawls the Lesser Moustachioed Bastard haughtily, “how very Pantoran.”

“I’m going to tear his moustache off,” hisses Eli, fist clenching.

“If we’re lucky, Buir will just eat him or something.”

Eli looks sourly at his twin. “And have them two go at it like rabbits all night?”

Teek rolls his eyes. “Leave off, vod’ika, it’s not like we can hear them or anything. Do you want a baby sister or not?”

He does. The four boys of Skulk do, very much, want a baby sister. Considering the discussion tabled, the twins return their attention to the Lesser Moustachioed Bastard currently digging his own grave with every sentence, allowing perhaps a little more eyeshine than is considered proper, just as a precaution. It wouldn’t do for this upstart politician to get any ideas about their buir and her status in the court of Coruscant.

“Now, Miss Chuchi,” condescend the man, and the twins grin wildly when Ree-buir reaches up and slaps him for his insolence. 

“You may address me as Senator, Grand Moff,” she corrects him pertly, “if you must address me at all.”

“Oya Ree-buir,” cheers Teek under his breath, gazing after her as she struts her way up to the throne, sitting brazenly on the Mand’alor’s lap. He cackles silently when the Lesser Moustachioed Bastard baulks, the sneer falling off his face in shock, especially when Buir pins him where he stands with a hard amber stare. “Jate’oya, buire.”

Good hunting indeed, Eli agrees maliciously, fiercely pleased to see that their buire have been weeding out the weak. Coruscant is of Mandalore now. Their protection does not extend to those with no spines to even try to stand up for themselves.

“Caldershot,” greets the Mand’alor shortly. “What have you brought into my court?”

The man shifts nervously. “I fear it is a matter for private ears, Mand’alor.”

He does, does he? Buir Fox leans back in his seat, wrapping his hand around Ree-buir’s hip, giving the impression of reclining as regally as any outer-rim lordling or king. “There are no private matters here. You obviously need my help. What are you willing to trade me as incentive?”

Gaping like a koi, the Lesser Moustachioed Bastart gapes. “Well, I – I don’t rightly know.”

Buir’s eyes sharpened, glaring a brighter amber. “I demand incentive for my aid. You wish me to endanger Mando’ade in your favour. Tell me why I should.”

Grand Moff Caldershot has nothing to say. Eli reaches out for a silent high-five. Boom. Take that, Lesser Moustachioed Bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love my Skulk boys so much, Teek and Eli in this crack me up so much.  
> The use of the word deflowered and moustachioed is Rob's fault.


End file.
